


Excellence in all things

by Tereshkova (EarthboundCosmonaut)



Category: Lewis (TV), The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Gen, Jean Innocent gets a backstory, Malcolm in a tux, Nicola tries really hard, things don't go to plan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-08-29 12:39:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16744168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EarthboundCosmonaut/pseuds/Tereshkova
Summary: Nicola has a good feeling about this evening, despite the fact that Malcolm is insisting on tagging along. She and Glenn had spent a whole afternoon working on her speech earlier in the week (a funny speech, for a change), she’ll get to spend some all-too-rare time with her sister, and hopefully Jean will act as a buffer between Malcolm and his unique brand of ‘moral support’.Secretary of State Nicola Murray is representing HM Government at the Excellence in Policing Awards. Her sister, Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent, is one of the award winners. Malcolm Tucker is in attendance to make sure it all goes to plan. What could possibly go wrong?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's my firm conviction that Jean Innocent was criminally underwritten in Lewis. Here's my attempt to help redress the balance. The notion that Jean Innocent and Nicola Murray are sisters has intreagued me since I first watched TTOI. When I started to wonder what would happen when Jean Innocent and Malcolm Tucker met, I knew it was time to start writing about it.
> 
> Thanks to notmoreflippingelves, who was kind enough to share her thoughts on Jean Innocent's character - and on our shared headcanon that Jean Innocent and Nicola Murray are siblings - while I was planning this story. Thanks also to LunaCatriona, who I tease mercilessly and puts up with it with such good grace.

Malcolm admires his reflection as he straightens his bow tie in the mirror. He’s always looked good in a dinner jacket. Comparisons have been made to Count Dracula: comparisons that serve him well in his line of work.

“Fourth floor, doors opening,” announces the lift. He steps onto the landing of the DoSAC offices. At this time on a Friday afternoon it bears a striking resemblance to the Marie Celeste.

Terri Coverley notices him coming as he stalks towards her desk and jolts her mouse, de-activating her screensaver. “You’re looking very smart, Malcolm,” she comments obsequiously.

“You’re lookin’ like a Vicar of Dibley drag act,” Malcolm tells her. He peers in the doorway of Nicola Murray’s office. It is clear of the detritus that she usually strews in her wake. “Where’s Nora Batty?”

“She went home about half an hour ago,” Glenn tells him.

“Home? It’s no’ even five o’clock! Even fuckin' Terri’s still here - even if she is just usin’ the time to file her nails.”

Terri looks insulted, but seems to think better of a retort. Instead she pretends to type something, whilst serruptitiously listening to their conversation.

“She said something about getting ready for the Excellence in Policing Awards with her sister,” Glenn says. “She’s also going to be attending.”

“Her fuckin’ sister’s going?”

“She works for the police,” Glenn informs him.

“As what?” Malcolm asks incredulously. “A tea lady?”

“Target practice for the gun squad?” suggests Ollie, jumping on the bandwagon with characteristically Machiavellian disloyalty to his boss.

“I believe she’s a police officer,” Glenn tells them primly. “She’s one of the award recipients.”

Malcolm heaves an inwards sigh. He’d put the kybosh on Nicola taking her husband because he’s even more of a PR nightmare waiting to happen that she is, and now she’s dragging along one of her relatives instead. If this sister’s drawn half the same genes as Nicola in the evolutionary lottery then this evening is going to be a complete pain in the arse.

“Right, you,” he says, throwing a folder on Glenn’s desk. “Get to her house and drill her on her talking points until she’s got ‘Property of HM Government’ imprinted on her fuckin’ hollow forehead.”

“She ran through her speech with us before she left,” Glenn says.

“Aye, and she’s drawn breath since then so the chances of her having retained any of it are non-existent. Get over there before I tattoo the fuckin' speech on your body and use you as a human autocue instead.”

“Fine,” says Glenn, starting to pack up his desk. “But I really don't think it’s necessary.”

“I’ll remind yeh of that on Monday morning,” Malcolm tells him darkly.

He’s not looking forward to the evening one bit. The Police Federation event is not the most high profile engagement that a cabinet minister is participating in tonight. In fact, it’s not even in the top 5: Nicola Murray is only presenting the annual Excellence in Policing Awards because both the Home Secretary and the Justice Secretary were otherwise engaged. It’s a measure of how totally unreliable she is that Malcolm is having to babysit _her_ through proceedings instead of going to something more important. His sole objective for the evening is to shepherd her thought her speaking parts and out of there as quickly as possible so that he can go and do something more enjoyable.

His phone vibrates with a message. He opens it and is treated to a photograph of a woman’s stocking clad leg. _Just getting dressed. Knickers or no knickers? x_

He supresses a groan. Melissa Bourgeois is a journalist who has made it clear that she would like a closer professional and personal relationship with him. She is very high on the list of things that he would rather be doing than holding Nicola Murray’s hand. As it is, he’s not going to be able to get to the hotel in Mayfair where they’ve arranged to meet until at least 10.30.

With a long-suffering sigh, he replies _If you want them to stay in one piece then leave them at home._ Then he heads over to Number 11 to make sure that the Chancellor knows how to respond to the questions about economic growth forecasts that he will inevitably face from the CBI this evening.

* * *

“Blender.” Katie holds out her right hand like a surgeon requesting a scalpel.

Tilly, who is acting as beautician’s assistant for the evening, bites her lip as she looks over the brushes lined up on the coffee table. She selects one and presses it into Katie’s palm.

Katie nods in satisfaction, picks up a powder compact and runs the brush over it. “Look down Aunty Jean.”

Jean obediently tips her chin downwards. She’d lost track of what Katie was doing twenty minutes ago, when she’d started talking about primer and contouring. She’s not sure where teenage girls learn about such things these days, but Katie’s knowledge of hairstyling and make up is light years ahead of the basics of eyeliner application and hair ironing that Jean had initiated Nicola into when they were both teenagers, some thirty years previously.

Normally she would be highly dubious about allowing a teenage girl to do her hair and makeup for a work event – or anything that requires leaving the house if she’s totally honest – but she’d seen Katie’s handiwork on Nicola at their cousin’s wedding in Norfolk last summer and it had been impressive. So Katie has transformed the living room into a makeshift salon, Tilly has enthusiastically volunteered for the role of assistant, and Jean is in the process of being made over.

She has to admit, it’s quite relaxing. Her hair has been brushed, straightened and pinned up with painstaking care, and Katie has spent the last half hour stroking her face with an assortment of sponges and brushes. Occasionally, the girls huddle together and hold hushed debates about issues such as the relative merits of olive versus taupe. Meanwhile, Nicola is sitting on the couch in her dressing gown, sipping bucks fizz and watching the proceedings with maternal pride. She looks, thinks Jean, the most calm that she has seen her in some time. Although the fact that they usually see each other at family parties – inevitably in obscure backwaters of the country that necessitate long car journeys, questionable self-catering accommodation and extended periods of time spent in the company of James – probably has some bearing on this.

“Who’s this colleague of yours that’s coming tonight?” Jean asks her.

Nicola sighs and rolls her eyes melodramatically. “Malcolm Tucker.”

“The spin doctor?” At this stage in the Government’s lifecycle, he’s a more recognisable public figure than most of the cabinet – Nicola included.

“I think of him more as Satan’s ambassador to Westminster,” grumbles Nicola. “There’s no situation that he can’t make more unpleasant.”

“I wouldn’t think there’s much that can be spun about the national policing awards, is there?”

“He’s coming to keep an eye on me,” says Nicola, her expression souring. “And probably to score a few points off me for his own amusement into the bargain. He thinks I’m an idiot.”

“Look up, Aunty Jean,” interrupts Katie.

Jean does so, peering at Nicola through the dark fringe of her eyelashes as Katie applies mascara. A melancholy expression has settled over her face. “You’ll be fine,” Jean reassures her. “Your speech sounded good when we rehearsed it earlier, and once that’s over all that’s left to do is eat dinner and hand out a few plaques.”

Nicola flashes her a grateful smile, straightening her shoulders. “Yes, you’re right. Plus you’ll be there to support me! For once, maybe I’ll be able to get through an event without something going wrong.”

The doorbell rings, the noise jarring with the pop music that the girls are playing from Katie’s iPod. A moment later, Jean hears running feet in the hall and the front door being wrenched open.

“Ella’s getting it,” says Nicola, not stirring from the sofa.

She wonders whether she should outline to Nicola the dangers of letting an eleven-year-old answer the door to an unexpected caller, but she thinks better of it. Nicola’s apparent calm is obviously not very deep rooted, and it wouldn't be fair to upset her just before she has to give a speech.

The front door slams closed and a moment later Ella’s disembodied voice announces: “Aunty Jean, these are for you,” from behind an enormous bunch of flowers.

“Oh how lovely!” says Nicola, gesturing Ella over and looking at the bouquet admiringly. “Who are they from?”

“Dunno. There’s a card,” says Ella.

Nicola reaches for it. “Shall I read it to you?” she asks, glancing over at Jean.

Jean nods, and watches as Nicola takes the little florist’s card from its envelope. “It’s from Phil. _Words can’t express how proud I am of you, Mrs Innocent. I wish I could be with you tonight. Sending you all my love, Mr Innocent_.” Nicola breaks into a soft smile. “Oh Jean, how sweet!”

“He’s very thoughtful,” acknowledges Jean, embarrassed. If she’d know what the card said, she wouldn’t have let Nicola read it out loud. “Have you nearly finished, Katie? I should put those flowers in some water, and you still have your Mum's hair and makeup to do.”

“Just a moment,” mutters Katie. And then: “There! My masterpiece is complete. What do you think?”

Katie guides her to the overmantle mirror. Jean examines her reflection, angling her head from side to side. It’s far better than anything she could have done herself: her hair has been pulled back into an elegant French twist, and the multitude of liquids and powders that Katie has spent the best part of 30 minutes dabbing on make her look subtly fresher and better defined, without appearing over made up. Frankly, it's a work of art. “I think your talents are wasted on the Police Federation,” Jean tells her, squeezing her arm. “Thank you, love.”

Katie beams, and then turns her attention on her mother. “Right, you’re next Mum. Let’s make you the MILF-iest minister at the ball.”

Jean is certain that Nicola doesn’t know what MILF actually stands for, because she giggles at this invitation and deposits herself in the chair that Jean has just vacated. “Do your worst, ladies.”

* * *

In the quiet of the kitchen, Jean takes a moment to read the card for herself, an uncomfortable lump lodging in her throat. Mr Innocent is no more a Mr than she is a Mrs: he is Brigadier Innocent of the 20th Armoured Infantry Brigade, currently half way through a six month deployment in Afghanistan. Given all the stress he must be under, she’s amazed that he’d even remembered she was receiving an award tonight. The lengths he must have gone to in order to arrange to have flowers delivered to his sister-in-law’s house…she shakes her head, blinking back tears.

She’d known the moment she’d met Phil that he was special. Early in their relationship – spiky from having to defend her ambition on a daily basis to male colleagues who thought her time should be spent making tea – she had informed him that she had no intention of being a traditional Army wife, so he’d better look elsewhere if that was what he was after. Phil had smiled and told her that he wouldn’t want to marry any woman whose ambition was so limited. Then he had got down on one knee and produced his grandmother’s ring. For such a pragmatic man, it had been a very romantic proposal.

That mutual respect for each other’s ambition and ability has been the bedrock of their marriage. It hasn’t been easy: the logistics alone are challenging. Phil spends large chunks of the year on deployment and many more living in messes so that he can be near the unit he is serving with. Jean, on the other hand, has always been bound to the vicinity of whichever nick she is currently stationed at. They’ve made their relationship work through painstaking attention to detail: the recognition that love thrives on consistency and meticulous focus on the mundane, rather than through grand romantic gestures. What precious time they have together is planned for months in advance, and every change made to the house is the subject of comprehensive consultation: she never wants Phil to come home and feel that things have moved on without him.

The hardest times are when – as at the moment – Phil is on active deployment. She knows only in the most general of terms where in the world he is, and he can’t commit to scheduled contact. During these periods, her heart clenches every time the phone rings with the fear that this might _the call_ : the one to say that this time, Brigadier Innocent will not be coming home.

She hasn’t always found his absences quite so difficult. Things changed when Chris left home - understandably, he'd wanted to start his career with a police force where he known first and foremost as PC Innocent, not as Chief Superintendent Innocent’s son. Since he's been gone, she’s started to dread going back to her empty house in the evenings. She lingers in the office, delaying the moment when she has to go home to dinner for one and rooms heavy with the absence of loved ones. She dreads her own company. She misses Phil terribly, and without the distraction of Chris around the house she’s becoming uncomfortably aware of the extent to which she’s sacrificed friendships and hobbies in pursuit of her career.

So, despite the fact that Nicola’s family life is about as relaxing as a hurricane, Jean had been pleased when she had suggested that as she was coming to London for the Excellence in Policing Awards, Jean should stay for the weekend. A few days spent with her sister, nieces and nephew had seemed like a perfect distraction from her empty house and her uncomfortably empty life. The only snag is that she can’t see Nicola without also seeing her prat of a husband.

James wanders into the kitchen while she is still looking at Phil’s card. She tries to ignore him, keeping her back to him and busying herself reaching for a water glass. Her tactic backfires. “I’ll say this for you Hillman women," he says, placing a lingering hand on her backside, "you’ve all got mighty fine arses.”

Jean closes her eyes and swallows her immediate impulse. Years of dealing with dinosaur colleagues while coming up through the ranks have taught her that reacting too passionately only invites more attention. Instead, she tucks the card into her jacket pocket and turns around.

“I haven’t seen you in your uniform in years, Jean,” James tells her, flashing the smile that women who don’t know him well mistake for charming. “It still suits you.”

He’s standing too close - she has to crane her neck to look at him. Jean turns the tables, taking a step forward so that James is forced to step _back_ in order to maintain eye contact. “If you touch me again,” she warns him, “I’ll tell Nicola what I caught you doing in the utility room last Christmas.”

James’ smile doesn’t waver; he’s never been easily deterred. “There’s no need to be like that. You should take it as a compliment.”

“Sexual harassment is never a compliment,” she tells him flatly, in a tone that she usually reserves for ticking off particularly thick constables.

His expression drops. “That’s another thing about you Hillman women,” he tells her sullenly, leaning down to hiss in her face. “You’re politically correct _bores_.”

It’s always alarmed her on Nicola’s behalf how quickly he can go from charming to antagonistic when he realises he’s not going to get his own way. “There are worse things to be,” she tells him mildly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to check on Josh and Ella. They’ve been suspiciously quiet for the last hour.” She’s forced to shoulder her way past him when he doesn’t move. James harumphs and Jean wonders how Nicola can bear it: the man hasn’t matured at all from the exceptionally puerile student Nicola had brought home to meet their parents some twenty-odd years earlier.

* * *

Nicola can’t hold back her smile as she smooths her dress down over her hips. For once, she doesn’t need anyone to reassure her that she looks fantastic. The girls had talked her into buying the dress on a shopping trip months ago and it’s hung in her wardrobe ever since, awaiting a suitable occasion for her to wear it. It’s not flashy: deep midnight blue velvet with a portrait neckline and a neat pencil skirt. It’s just that it fits her beautifully - highlights all her good areas, hides all her flaws, and makes her feel a million dollars. Combined with the miracles Katie has worked styling her hair and giving her dewy skin and a smoky eye, she knows she looks amazing.

In fact, she has a good feeling about this entire evening, despite the fact that Malcolm is insisting on tagging along. She and Glenn had spent a whole afternoon working on her speech earlier in the week (a funny speech, for a change), she’ll get to spend some all-too-rare time with her sister, and hopefully Jean will act as a buffer between Malcolm and his unique brand of ‘moral support’.

The door opens and shhe glances over her shoulder in the mirror to see James enter their bedroom. “Is this a new dress?” he asks, coming to stand behind her.

She nods, unable to keep the smile from her face. “Yes. Do you like it?”

He eyes her appraisingly in the mirror. “Very much,” he says, stepping in closer behind her. He cups her arse with one hand, the other sliding round to caress her breast. “Very fuckable,” he whispers in her ear, before nipping her neck sharply.

Nicola yelps and giggles. But she’s distracted by an unwelcome thought. Is the dress too sexy? Is Malcolm going to take one look at her and send her home to change? Or fashion her some kind of cover-up out of a black plastic sack and force her to wear it all night? The dress comes down to just below her knee and there isn’t any cleavage on show – surely he won’t be able to find anything to object to?

James’ hand snakes round her waist and pulls her flush against him. “When do you have to leave?” he asks, backing towards the bed and toppling them both onto it, so that he is lying on his back with her sprawled half on top of him.

“Soon – the taxi will be here at seven,” she tells him, although she shifts to a slightly more comfortable position and allows him to nuzzle her neck. “And I don’t have time to do my hair and makeup again.”

“Eugh,” says James, as though this is a gross inconvenience. Then: “You’ve got time to give me a quick blow job.”

“James!”

“Hand job?” he suggests, taking her hand and guiding it down to his crotch.

“No!” she says, pulling her hand away from his grip. “You’ll have to wait until later.” But he is caressing the back of her thigh in a manner that is making her forget all about the fact that she has to give a speech in front of 500 people later, so she stays where she is for the moment – even weaves her hand through his hair and strokes his scalp.

James makes a contented purring sound and moves his lips from her neck long enough to ask “Can you borrow Jean’s handcuffs?”

She splutters in shock. “No! They’re not toys, James. Besides, I couldn’t ask her that - I'd be mortified.”

“What about her uniform, then?” he persists. “Just the jacket. And maybe the hat. She doesn’t need to find out - you could just sneak them off the coat stand.”

Nicola stiffens, any sense of relaxation that has accumulated over the last few minutes evaporating. “You want me to dress up as my sister in bed?”

“Not as your sister: as a naughty policewoman.”

She pushes herself up onto her elbows so that she can look him in the face. “In my sister’s clothes!?”

James’ hands fall away from her body as he takes in her expression. “There’s no need to be melodramatic, Nicky. I just thought it’d be a bit of fun, that’s all. Jesus, you’re as bad as she is.”

She stares at him, trying to figure out whether she’s being unreasonable. After all, it’s not as though James has never asked her to dress up before. Is pretending to be a police officer really so different from pretending to be a nurse? Perhaps she’s overthinking it. “I’m sorry,” she stutters. “Maybe…I don’t know. Maybe another time we could—”

There’s a knock on their bedroom door. She looks up and realises that it’s been standing ajar. Jean is on the other side, looking neat and inscrutable in her dress uniform. How long has she been there, Nicola wonders, feeling her face flush red. Hopefully not long enough to hear them talking about borrowing her clothes.

“Nicola, your colleague Glenn’s downstairs,” Jean says.

“Glenn?” Nicola pushes herself away from James and clambers to her feet. “What’s he doing here?”

“He says he’s come to brief you. Apparently Malcolm Tucker thought you could do with a last-minute primer on crime prevention policy.”

She groans. Bloody Malcolm. Just for once, why can’t he trust her? ““All right, I’m coming,” she says.

As Jean steps back to let her pass, she sees a flash of pity in her eyes. Nicola straightens her spine and walks downstairs with as much dignity as she can muster.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for posting such a long chapter. There's a lot of scene setting to get through, which should lay the ground for subsequent chapters to move along at a brisker pace.

It’s immediately apparent when Jean walks into the playroom why Ella and Josh have been so quiet for the last hour. They’ve set up their own salon, but it seems that Ella’s talent for hair and makeup leans more towards the theatrical than her sisters'. Josh’s face is chalk white, with black pits for eyes and a blood red gash for a mouth. The effect is enhanced by his hair, which has been painted green and gelled into crispy spikes.

“Aunty Jean, I’m the Joker!” Josh tells her excitedly.

Ella offers her a guilty grin. “Hi Aunty Jean.”

“Is that Josh?” she says, walking over to take a good look at the damage. “I didn’t recognise you.” Josh laughs delightedly. “What have you done to your hair?” she asks, fingering one of the spikes. Her fingers come away covered in green goo. Sticky streaks of it are running down his neck and staining his pyjamas. Nicola, Jean knows, will have a fit if she sees him like this.

“Face paint didn’t work so we had to use gel and poster paint,” Josh tells her.

“I see,” says Jean, firing a stern look at Ella.

Ella grins sheepishly. “He asked me to help him.”

“I’m sure he did,” says Jean. “And I’m sure you realised that just before bedtime isn’t the right moment for dressing up.”

“I do now,” mutters Ella, eyes downcast.

Jean does a quick assessment of her options. A telling off won’t achieve much: Josh doesn’t understand that his makeup is anything other than a fun game, and Ella already knows she’s in the wrong. The most pragmatic solution is to use Ella’s remorse to get Josh cleaned up before Nicola sees him.

“The babysitter will be here soon, Josh. Why doesn’t Ella help you get washed up so that you’re ready for a bedtime story when she arrives?”

Ella looks grateful. Josh looks more uncertain. “Can I show Daddy first?”

Privately, Jean doubts that James will be very interested in his son’s costume. However, she knows that his father’s approval is important to Josh. She nods. “Go on then - he’s in the kitchen. But hurry up, he’s going out soon too.”

Josh runs from the room. Jean surveys the mess of facepaint, brushes and stained tissues strewn across the table. “In the meantime Ella, you can help me clear this up.”

Ella nods meekly and starts cleaning her brushes. After a few moments of silence, she says hesitantly “Aunty Jean, can I ask you a question?”

Jean glances at her. Ella’s expression is serious and a little apprehensive. She puts a palette of facepaints down on the table and turns to face her properly. “Yes. What’s on your mind?”

“Do you know anything about drugs?”

Jean keeps her expression carefully neutral. She’s always tried to treat her nieces and nephew much as she would adults, albeit with slightly more patience. Which is why, from time to time, they ask her questions on topics that would send Nicola into orbit. Such as drugs. “A fair bit. What do you want to know?”

“Is cocaine bad?”

“Well,” she explains, “it’s a class A drug, which is the most serious category.”

“What does it do?”

Jean runs through her mental inventory of knowledge, formulating an answer that’s factual but straightforward. “It’s a stimulant. It makes you feel very confident and alert.”

“But it’s bad for you?”

“All drugs are bad for you, Ella.”

“I know, but why is cocaine bad?”

“Well, cocaine doesn’t last very long, and when it wears off users feel depressed and ill.”

“Can it make people angry?”

“Yes,” Jean allows. “Sometimes it makes people aggressive or reckless.”

Ella nods, digesting this information. “How much trouble can you get in for taking it?”

“A lot. Up to 7 years in prison or an unlimited fine for possession. More for supplying.”

“Would you definitely go to prison if you got caught with it?”

There’s only so far she can entertain this line of questioning without knowing where it’s coming from. “Why do you want to know, Ella? Do you have some cocaine?”

Ella stares at her wide eyed, shaking her head. The surprise is too genuine for her to be acting.

“Someone you know, then?”

Hesitantly, Ella nods.

“Are you worried about your friend?”

“He’s not my friend!” says Ella with venom. Then, alarmed at her own outburst, “You won’t tell Mum I was asking, will you?”

“No,” Jean reassures her. She’d rather the girls felt able to come to her with these sorts of questions than speak to someone less reliable. And if they trust her to keep a secret, they might also trust her enough to ask for help when they need it. “If you have any more questions, you can call me any time. You have my mobile number, don’t you?”

Ella’s distracted from answering by the doorbell. “That’ll be Lindsay!” she says, starting towards the door.

“I’ll get it.” Jean tells her. “You finish tidying this up, then go and help your brother clean his face.”

It’s not the babysitter at the door – unless Nicola and James have been blacklisted by every agency in the city and had to resort to less conventional childcare providers. She’s greeted by a tall, middle aged man. He’s wearing a suit cut in a style that was last fashionable in the early 1990s and a long-suffering expression. “Can I help you?” she asks.

“I’m here to see Nicola Murray.” His voice is stiff and precise.

She doesn't move. “And you are?”

“Sorry, I’m Glenn Cullen – one of Nicola’s advisors from DoSAC.”

“Do you have any ID?” She recognises the name from Nicola’s long, discontented rambles about work, but she’s no way of knowing that this man is who he says he is.

“Right, err, yes I should think so, hang on.” He tucks his briefcase under one arm and digs through his pockets. “Aha!” he announces a few moments later. “Will this do?”

Jean examines his DoSAC staff pass, which dangles from a pristine Friends of the British Museum lanyard. “That’s fine, thank you,” she confirms, handing the pass back and stepping aside to let him in. “Sorry to ask, but it never hurts to be careful.”

“No quite, very sensible,” says Glenn obsequiously. “You ahh, you must be Nicola’s sister.”

“Jean Innocent,” she confirms, holding out her hand. His handshake is weak and rather limp. “Nicola didn’t mention you’d be dropping by,” she continues brusquely. She could do without the distraction. They need to leave in about 20 minutes, and the last push to get Nicola out of the door is usually a little fraught.

“It wasn’t arranged. The Director of Communications asked me to come over and run through some policy points with her.”

“Nicola and I spent a couple of hours rehearsing this afternoon. She seems very well prepared.”

“I know,” says Glenn apologetically. “She _is_ well prepared. But – well, Malcolm insisted.”

Malcolm Tucker – the man Nicola is convinced thinks her an idiot. If this sort of last-minute needling is typical of him, she can see why. The most charitable interpretation she can put on it is that Mr Tucker doesn’t seem to have grasped how to manage Nicola’s nerves yet. “All right,” she says. “Why don’t you wait in the living room. I’ll fetch her.”

Glenn glances in the direction of the living room, sees Katie and Tilly through the open door, and shakes his head. “I’ll wait here, thank you.”

 _Coward_ , she thinks to herself. As she passes the playroom she calls out “Ella, sort Josh out before your mother sees him,” and is rewarded with a faint “Yes Aunty Jean.”

The door to Nicola and James’ bedroom is ajar. She lifts her hand to knock but freezes, knuckles inches away from the wood, when she hears Nicola squeal “You want me to dress up as my sister in bed?”

She stands still and waits for the answer.

“Not as your sister,” comes James’ mumbled reply. “As a naughty policewoman.”

“In my sister’s clothes!?” demands Nicola, hurt mingling with incredulity.

Jean closes her eyes. It's not hard to follow James’ train of thought - from seeing a woman in a police uniform, to concocting a fantasy about it, to trying to recruit his wife to play along. But when the police officer in question is the older sister to whom Nicola bears more than a slight resemblance, the suggestion takes on another dimension.

“There’s no need to be melodramatic, Nicky." James’ voice is equal parts irritation and rationality, the strong implication being that _Nicola_ is the one being unreasonable. "I just thought it’d be a bit of fun, that’s all. Jesus, you’re as bad as she is.”

There’s a silence which, personally, Jean would have used to slap him. When Nicola finally formulates a reply, she hears the uncertainty in her sister’s voice. “I’m sorry. Maybe…” Nicola stutters, the effort she’s making to try to align herself to James’ point of view almost palpable. “I don’t know. Maybe another time we could—”

Jean knocks, cutting her off before she can concede any more ground. “Nicola, your colleague Glenn’s downstairs.” She peers round on the door to see James lying on the bed and Nicola propped up on her elbows next to him.

“Glenn?” Nicola scrambles to her feet, smoothing her dress down. “What’s he doing here?”

“He says he’s come to brief you. Apparently Malcolm Tucker thought you could do with a last-minute policy primer.”

Nicola groans. “All right, I’m coming.”

It’s the first time Jean’s seen her in the dress. The softness of the velvet, the gentle way it drapes, and the artful manner in which Katie has brought out the green in her eyes and the radiance in her skin make her look beautiful. Except that there is also hurt and vulnerability in Nicola’s eyes, and in the stiff, uncertain way she walks downstairs.

Nicola’s always been fragile: eager to please, too trusting and far too easy to hurt. It brought out the protective elder sister in Jean when they were children, and she finds she still feels the same now. As she follows her down the stairs, she resolves to make sure that nothing else spoils this evening for her sister.

* * *

Glenn’s hovering in the hall, glancing around as though he’s in imminent danger of being attacked. In fairness to him, it’s not entirely without the realms of possibility. She can hear giggling and banging that suggest a rather boisterous game is taking place in the downstairs loo, and Katie and Tilly have pushed the coffee table to one side to give them more space to dance along to music videos in the living room.

She forces her face into a smile. “Hi Glenn.”

He turns to look at her, and his mouth drops open. “Good evening, Nicola. You look – gosh – if I might be so bold, you look very handsome.” He seems flustered.

Behind her Jean snorts derisively at Glenn’s awkward compliment, but his reaction chips away at some of tension that she feels. Her smile becomes a little more genuine. “Thanks. Malcolm sent you over to read the Riot Act, did he?”

“’Fraid so,” says Glenn, holding up a sheath of papers apologetically.

“Why don’t you come through to the kitchen?” she suggests as she reaches the bottom of the stairs.

“I’ll tell the girls to get into their pyjamas,” says Jean, peeling off into the living room.

Nicola leads Glenn down the hall, wondering how quickly they can get this over with. She’s a step away from the loo when the door bursts open and Josh tumbles out, yelling “Oww, you’re making my hair hurt!”

She’s too close to move out of the way. He collides with her, the force of his compact body knocking them both sideways. “Josh!” she yelps, righting herself and placing her hands on his shoulders to steady him.

“Sorry!” He says it so quickly that she knows it’s more reflex than genuine apology.

“What’s happened to your face?” she asks, noticing the mess of smudged white and red.

Ella appears in the doorway behind Josh, a towel dangling from her hand. Her face scrunches up when she sees them. “Oops.”

“And your hair!?” Nicola continues, gazing at the green slime that has transferred itself to her hands.

“We made hairdye,” Josh tells her.

“Mum,” interrupts Ella, pointing. “Your dress."

Nicola stares down. The soft velvet of the skirt is smeared with chalk white and patches of green slime. “Shit!” she yells, all conventions about swearing in front of the children momentarily forgotten. “Here, let me—” she snatches the towel from Ella’s hands, dabbing at the stain.

Ella protests “No Mum, don’t, it’s—”

But it’s too late. By the time that she realises the towel is covered in whatever mess is on Josh’s hair, she’s already rubbed it into the fabric. Panic rushes up through her body in a hot wave. “Oh Christ, what am I going to—"

“Here, let me have a look.” Jean appears at her side. She tugs the dirty towel out of her hands and looks at the damage. “Right,” she says decisively. “Go up to your bathroom and take this off off. I might be able to wash the paint out.”

“But my dress’ll get wet!” Nicola protests, poking the stain. They need to leave at any moment. She can’t go out with a massive wet patch on the front of her dress - Malcolm will be making incontinence jokes all night.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Jean tells her, nudging her towards the stairs.

Nicola climbs on autopilot, eyes transfixed by the mess down her front. The velvet has already started to set into crusty green peaks where she’s rubbed it. Behind her she hears Jean issuing calm orders to the children. “Katie, take Josh upstairs for a shower. Ella, put his pyjamas and the towels straight in the utility room – we don’t want any more accidents.”

Her hands are shaking as she elbows the bedroom door open, careful not to transfer green paint to the woodwork. James glances up in surprise. “Blimey, what happened to you?”

“Would you open the door?” she tells him, still irritated at him for his earlier comments.

James opens the door to the en suite and turns on the light. “I don’t think you’re going to be able to clean that up in time to wear it tonight.”

“Oh you’re a dry cleaner now, are you?” she says savagely, kicking the bath mat to one side. “Would you just undo this fucking zip and then sod off, please?”

“Fine,” says James sulkily, lowering the zip at the back of her dress. “I’ll head out to Mike’s leaving do now then.”

“Don’t forget you have to be back by ten,” she tells him as she wriggles out of the dress. “Lindsay can’t stay any later.”

“Yes, I know, you’ve told me about a hundred times already!” shouts James from the bedroom.

Jean appears in the doorway. She’s removed her uniform jacket and rolled up the sleeves of her crisp white shirt. “Right, let me take a look at this,” she says, picking up the dress. “Why don’t you go and listen to whatever it is that Glenn’s come to say?”

“Jean! We’ve got to go in about ten minutes! I haven’t got time to listen to Glenn wittering on!”

“You’re in no state to help with this,” insists Jean calmly. She places a gentle hand on her forearm, waiting until Nicola makes eye contact with her before adding, “Just sit down quietly for a moment. Have a drink of water.”

There’s something wonderfully reassuring about Jean, Nicola thinks as she takes in her commanding but not unsympathetic expression. Uniquely among her husband, her colleagues and her family, Jean is the only person who's ever combined competence with a genuine interest in her welfare. “Okay,” she agrees, tugging on her bathrobe and wiping her stained fingers clean on the towelling.

Jean offers one of her rare smiles. “Well done. I won’t be long.”

Nicola goes back into the bedroom. Glenn is hovering in the doorway, looking even more uncomfortable than he had in the hall. “Come in. You can sit over here,” she tells him, shifting a pile of discarded clothes from the occasional chair onto the floor.

Glenn perches on the edge of the chair, back ramrod straight and knees pressed prissily together.

“What do you want to brief me on?” she asks him, sitting on the bed and taking a gulp of water from the glass on the nightstand. It goes down wrong and she chokes, coughing so hard that her eyes water.

“Are you all right, Nicola?” asks Glenn, concerned.

She nods, staring at him through bleary eyes. “Yes. Just bloody get on with it.”

“Right,” says Glenn, shuffling through his papers. “Do you want to go through your speech?”

“No, I don’t want to go through the fucking speech! I went through it with you half a dozen times on Wednesday, and Jean and I have run through it again today – I know the sodding thing back to front!” He looks offended by the sharpness of her tone, but she doesn’t really care. She didn’t ask him to come here in the first place.

“Well why don’t I run through the headlines from the most recent crime statistics bulletin, then?”

“Fine,” she says. She takes another sip of water, managing not to choke this time.

Glenn flips to a tabbed page. “The big picture message is good,” he begins, squinting in order to read without his glasses. “Overall reported crime fell by 1.3%, with the biggest fall in violent crime, which fell by 3.2%. However, this masks a rise in certain areas, particularly domestic violence which rose by 5.6%–“ 

She zones out as he drones on, getting to her feet and starting to pace. Elsewhere in the house she hears the doorbell ring and the sound of Lindsay’s voice as someone – Tilly – lets her in. Josh’s protests can be heard drifting out from the main bathroom, over the sound of running water.

Jean emerges from the en suite as Glenn is detailing conviction rates for drug possession. Nicola can tell from her empty hands and the thin set of her mouth that the news is not good. Her stomach clenches. “You can’t fix it, can you?” she asks.

“It’s going to need professional cleaning,” Jean confirms. “We’ll have to find something else for you to wear.”

“I haven’t _got_ anything else to wear!” she protests.

“Don’t be silly, Nicola.” Jean opens the door to her wardrobe. “You’ve got more than one cocktail dress. Goodness knows I’ve seen you in about twenty over the years.”

“But none of the ones I like fit any more! Not since I had Josh.”

“Have you tried them recently?” asks Jean.

“Well no, but—”

“Then we’ll try them on now,” say Jean, pulling dresses out of the wardrobe and laying them on the bed. “I’m sure most of them will still fit. You haven’t gained that much weight.”

“But my boobs have practically disappeared!” she gripes, hearing the petulance in her own voice.

“Well that’s easily enough fixed,” says Jean. “Which one do you want to try on first?”

Nicola stares at the half dozen dresses Jean has laid out. She hates all of them. James said the turquoise one makes her look like a Smurf, and whenever she looks at the red one all she can think of is the appalling row they’d had at the rugby club Christmas party last year.

Reading the reluctance in her expression, Jean leans down and picks up a green chiffon dress. “Here, this one’s very elegant. Try it first.”

“Fine,” huffs Nicola, taking off her dressing gown.

“Shall I wait outside?” asks Glenn in a strangled voice.

Jean glances over at him. “Have you got much more to say?”

“Uh, not too much.”

“Then finish it now so that we’ve got one less thing to worry about. Look the other way if it bothers you.”

Glenn turns to face the wall and clears his throat loudly. “Right, uh…conviction rates. Yes, uh, there has been an increase in the number of cases presented to the CPS not being taken forward to trial.”

Normally Nicola would be mortified at one of her aides seeing her in her underwear, especially as the figure shaping knickers and flesh coloured strapless bra she’s wearing aren’t exactly elegant. But right at this moment, she’s more concerned about the fact that she’ll be walking up onto the stage in front of 500 police officers in her M&S shapewear if she can’t find another outfit. Jean helps her into the green dress. It used to be one of her favourites: a boned bodice and a flowing chiffon skirt. Unfortunately, the bodice wasn’t designed to accommodate the belly of a woman who’s had four children. Tears prick in her eyes as the zip resolutely refuses to budge past her sucked-in stomach.

“Don’t worry,” says Jean, squeezing her shoulder comfortingly. “It’s a very unforgiving cut. Let’s try another.”

Nicola steps out of the dress and kicks it to one side while Jean reaches for another. “Not that one,” says Nicola, seeing the purple dress in her hand.

“Why not?” asks Jean. “It’s lovely.”

Nicola recalls the hour she’d spent shivering outside in that dress one winter's evening after James had shut her out of the house during an argument and shudders. “Bad memories.”

Jean’s gaze lingers on her, in a manner that tells her she plans to find out exactly what bad memories the dress evokes later, but for now she nods acceptingly. “All right. This one then?”

It’s the turquoise dress. “James says it makes me look like a Smurf.”

Jean puts the dress in the discard pile and tries a different tactic. “Which one do _you_ want to try next?” Her tone is so patient. How does she manage it? Perhaps compared to investigating rapes and murders, this really isn’t very stressful for her.

Nicola stares at the remaining dresses. The red dress is also a no-no, which leaves two silk dresses: one magenta and one burnt orange. Malcolm will say they’re both too loud, but the orange one is slightly less so. “That one,” she tells Jean, pointing to it.

Worldlessly Jean helps her into the dress and – praise heaven – the zip closes all the way this time. The bodice gapes a bit at the top, but Jean takes a brooch from her dressing table and uses it to artfully gather the loose fabric. “There, how’s that?” she asks.

Nicola looks at herself in the mirror. It’s not her lovely velvet dress. She looks hot and flustered, and the unforgiving gloss of the silk highlights the curve of her belly that she’s so self-conscious about.

“You look lovely, Nicola,” ventures Glenn cautiously.

A sob escapes her throat. They’re just humouring her now. She looks like a cross, chubby, middle aged woman.

Jean opens her mouth to say something but is cut off by Tilly yelling up the stairs “Mummy, your taxi’s here!”

“Shit,” mutters Nicola under her breath.

“This dress works,” Jean tells her firmly, reaching into the wardrobe and passing her a black pashmina. “Go and get in the car. You’ll feel better once we’re on our way.”

Nicola takes the pashmina and casts one last, doubtful look in the mirror before going downstairs.

The children are crowded in the hall. “I’m sorry I made your dress messy, Mummy,” Josh tells her solemnly. He’s pink from his shower, his hair blonde once again and his face scrubbed clean.

“Me too,” adds Ella. “You still look very nice.”

Katie’s wearing a tight-lipped expression that speaks volumes about what _she_ thinks of the wardrobe change.

Nicola sighs. However unhappy she is about the situation, there’s no point taking it out on the kids. James does that enough for the both of them. “It doesn’t matter sweetheart,” she tells Josh, bending down to give him a hug and plant a kiss on his clean hair. “It’s only a dress.” She hugs the girls in turn as well. “Be good for Lindsay,” she says as she pulls on her shoes. “Go to bed when she tells you, and no junk food.”

The children nod and offer an uncharacteristically obedient chorus of “Yes Mum” and “We promise, Mummy”. The dress mst look horrific if they feel this guilty.

Jean comes down the stairs. She is wearing her uniform jacket once again, carrying her hat and pristine white gloves tucked under one arm. Glenn follows behind her, looking positively traumatised.

“Why don’t you go and explain to the taxi driver where we’re going,” Jean suggests. “While I get rid of Eeyore,” she adds in Nicola's ear.

“All right.” Nicola gives the children one last wave goodbye and steps out into the night. The evening air is cool on her skin and, after the noise of a house full of people, the street is exquisitely quiet. Which is why Jean had insisted she go out to the car first, of course. There’s logic behind everything that Jean says and does.

Nicola loiters by the garden gate, taking a few deep breaths, and tries to reason with herself. She can’t let this rattle her. So she’s not wearing the dress she wanted to – it's no big deal. She still has lovely hair and makeup, courtesy of Katie; she’s better prepared for her speech than any of the others she’s given since taking office; and she’s going to spend an evening in the company of her sister.  The shapeless, clawing feeling of dread that has lodged itself in the back of her mind is completely irrational.

Jean joins her, hat now perched on top of her hair. “Here, you forgot these,” she says.

Nicola takes her handbag and cue cards from Jean’s gloved fingers. She wouldn't even have been able to pay the taxi driver without them, let alone give her speech. If it was anyone else, she’d make a joke to mask her embarrassment. Instead, she just asks “What have you done with Glenn?”

“Called him a taxi. Josh is showing him his hamster while he waits for it to arrive.”

“Oh.” She can’t imagine Glenn being much of a hamster person. But then again, it’s also hard to imagine him ever having sex, and yet he has a child and an ex-wife.

“Feeling better?” asks Jean, placing a hand between her shoulder blades.

“A bit,” she says. And she does feel a _bit_ better. She no longer feels like she’s about to vomit or cry, which is a significant improvement on ten minutes ago.

“Let’s get going, then,” says Jean, leading her towards the taxi. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a nice cool glass of champagne.”

She gives a laugh that sounds only slightly nervy. “I think I could do with a bottle.”


	3. Chapter 3

Malcolm’s a little later than he would like setting off from the Treasury. The Chancellor’s going through one of his bolshy phases, and it had taken Malcolm a while to persuade him that he could make his life significantly more uncomfortable than any fat cat industrialist worried about an extra percentage point on National Insurance.

He calls Glenn from the car. “Glenn, how’s the clockwork minister? All wound up and ready to walk and talk on cue?”

“Well,” says Glenn, sounding ponderous. “She’s certainly wound up.”

Malcolm sighs. Of course she is. Of course she fucking is. It’s never fucking easy with Nicola Murray. “Is she ready? Does she know what she’s doing? No wait – I take that back – it’s obvious that she hasn’t got a fucking clue what she’s doing. But does she know what to say?”

“Uuh…yes. Yes – she was very well prepared earlier this week. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

“I don’t want to know about earlier this week. I want to know about when you saw her twenty minutes ago. Was she fine then?”

“Well…” says Glenn. There’s an ominous pause, which is punctuated by a bang followed by high pitched squeaking.

“What the fuck was that?” demands Malcolm.

Glenn’s voice is muffled. “I’ve just knocked the hamster cage off its table.”

“Aren’t you a bit old for hamsters?”

“It’s not mine, it’s Josh Murray’s.”

“Josh Murr– are you still at the house?”

“I’m waiting for a taxi. Nicola’s sister wouldn’t let me ride with them. She said I was making Nicola anxious.”

“Nicola’s fucking incompetence makes Nicola anxious,” grumbles Malcolm.

“I really think she’ll do all right,” Glenn tells him.

Malcolm grunts. “Just try not to kill the fuckin’ rat,” he tells him, then hangs up. He has another text message from Melissa.

_Are you sure you can’t get away any sooner?_

_Believe me, I fucking wish I could_ he sends back. _Good things come to those who wait._

She must be next to the phone because her reply comes within a few seconds. _I’m hoping that very bad things come to those who wait ;_ _-)_

The car pulls up outside the Old Royal Naval College in Greenwich. Malcolm tucks his phone in his pocket and adjusts his cummerbund. Three hours – hopefully that’s all it’s going to take to drag Nicola Murray through these sodding awards. Then he can get out of here and have some fun.

* * *

The reception room’s already full when he arrives – no public servant ever passed up the opportunity to sip champagne at someone else’s expense. He hands his invitation to the liveried doorman. “I’m with the Secretary of State, Mrs Murray. Short, confused, frizzy hair - have you seen her?”

The doorman glances around. “She was over there a moment ago – talking to the president. The tall bloke with the silverware.”

Malcolm looks in the direction that the doorman is pointing. His stomach does in involuntary flip. Nicola’s talking to the president of the Police Federation all right – but what the fuck possessed her to leave the house dressed in _that_?

“Thanks,” he tosses over his shoulder as he barges his way through the crowd. She’s chatting away to the stuffed shirt as though everything’s normal and she’s not committing – even by her standards – an extraordinary lapse in judgement. He doesn’t even bother to say hello, just grabs her by the elbow and drags her to the side of the room.

“What are you doing?” she demands as he pulls her along behind him.

“Savin’ your fuckin’ skin!” he tells her, spinning her round to face him. He leans forward so that he won’t be too widely overheard as he hisses in her face. “Jesus Nic’la, it’s not fuckin’ Halloween yeh know! I don’t give a shit if yer sister’s the Metropolitan Police Commissioner, yeh can’t wear that – the press’ll fuckin’ _crucify_ yeh!”

“Excuse me?” she says coldly, shaking him off. She glares at him as she brushes down the thick, wool sleeve of her police tunic with a white-gloved hand. And Christ, she really does look terrifying in that get-up – stern and authoritative. Her sullen frown may not be desirable in a politician, but pair it with a police uniform and it’s very effective.

Before he can respond, a voice behind him says “Oh there you are Malcolm, I see you’ve found my sister.”

He turns to see Nicola Murray carrying two glasses of champagne and wearing a hideous orange dress. “Sister?” He glances between the two women: human brillo-pad dressed like a boiled sweet; terrifying policewoman. Similar, but very definitely not the same person, he realises.

Nicola’s sister arches an eyebrow and extends a hand to him. “Not quite the Metropolitan Police Commissioner I’m afraid. Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent.”

“Malcolm Tucker,” he says. She has a very firm handshake. He doesn’t know much about policing, but there are a lot of ribbons and medals on her uniform: she’s obviously quite senior. He glances back at Nicola, who has somehow managed to smear caviar on her cheek.

“Jean’s receiving the Excellence in Policing award for the Thames Valley region,” she tells as she hands her sister a glass of champagne.

“Is that why you’ve come dressed as a satsuma?” Malcolm asks. The stupid woman actually blushes. Not that he gives a shit about her embarrassment. She’s not colour blind: she must know when she’s leaving the house looking like something that belongs in a fruit bowl. “You’ve go’ food on yer face,” he points out.

Nicola’s eyes widen.

“Here, I’ll do it,” says her sister, dabbing at her cheek with a paper napkin.

“I didn’t realise yeh had a twin,” Malcolm says, glancing between the two of them. The more he looks, the more differences he can see – in the frown lines, the shades of their hair, their body shape – but the similarity is still startling.

“We’re not, we’re just quite close in age,” Nicola tells him. “Irish twins, they call it.”

“You were an accident, were you?” Malcolm asks her.

Nicola’s face falls. “How did you—”

Her sister cuts her off. “Neither of us was an accident,” Jean tells him firmly.

But Malcolm can see from Nicola’s crushed expression that he’s hit a raw nerve. Interesting. He files the knowledge away, already wondering how he might be able to use it to his advantage.

Jean places a bracing hand in the small of her sister’s back. “We should go back to John, Nicola. He’s going to want a chance to show off his guest of honour before dinner.”

Nicola glances uncertainly between Jean and Malcolm. Malcolm nods his consent. “Aye, he’ll have a queue of plods wanting the kiss yer cheek and have their photo taken with yeh – God help them.”

As she leads her sister away, Jean Innocent gives him a look that could strip paint. Malcolm offers her his most sinister grin in return. She has no idea what he has to put up with.

* * *

“You must be terribly proud of your sister.”

Nicola smiles and nods. It’s the fourth time someone’s said this to her this evening and she’s running out of ways to respond.

“She’s dragged Oxfordshire CID into the twenty-first century,” continues the speaker, unperturbed. Nicola’s already forgotten who he is – someone very senior from Wales. He’s probably called Jones, or Davies, or Evans, but she doesn’t want to hazard a guess because she’ll inevitably pick the wrong one.

“Steady on Dai,” says Jean. “The twentieth century perhaps. No one could accuse Oxford of having joined the twenty-first yet.”

Their group laughs more heartily than the joke deserves. “At least they’ve discovered computers under your leadership,” chips in the Assistant Chief Constable for South Yorkshire. Clarke, she thinks his name is. Or was it Watson?

The small crowd of Assistant and Deputy Chief Constables – all male – had clustered round them shortly after they’d arrived and shows no signs of wanting to go and mingle with anyone else. The fan club, Nicola has realised, is not for her.

She glances around, wondering when they’re going to be called through to the dining room. She jumps at the sight of Malcolm standing a foot behind her, his face stony. “Jesus, Malcolm!” she whispers. Champagne sloshes out of her glass and spills down her right hand, narrowly avoiding her skirt as it splatters onto the floor.

He leans down so that his mouth is a few inches from her ear. “Guilty conscience?”

“No – a sense of personal space. Would you not lurk like that please?” Malcolm doesn't move. She edges a few inches away from him – as far as she can manage without drawing attention to herself – and fishes in her bag for a tissue.

“She’s popular,” observes Malcolm, tilting his head towards Jean.

As she wipes champagne from her hand, Nicola watches her sister make conversation with her group of admirers. She looks relaxed, as though entertaining a dozen of the country’s most senior police officers doesn’t bother her at all. It probably doesn’t. Nicola can’t recall ever seeing Jean display anything less than quiet confidence. Why would she, when she’s never shown anything less than quiet _competence_ at anything she’s set her hand to? Sometimes, when she wants to make a good impression, Nicola pretends to herself that she’s Jean. In fact, she might fall back on that old trick shortly. She’s really rather nervous about her speech. She wishes she was wearing the dress she’d originally put on, because velvet would have been a lot more forgiving of sweat patches than silk.

As though following her train of thought, Malcolm says “I wish she was makin’ this fuckin’ speech instead of you.”

Her shoulders tense at his tone. “So do I,” she tells him tightly. “But it’d rather defeat the object of having a Cabinet Minister as guest of honour, so unfortunately it’ll have to be me.”

“You weren’t the first choice, you know. They wanted the Justice Secretary, but he’s dinin’ on truffled swan and virgins’ tears with the High Court judges tonight.”

She turns to glare at him. “Is this going to turn into a pep talk at some point, or are you just going to insult me?”

Malcolm narrows his eyes. “I’m tryin’ teh explain that there are far more important things I could be doin’ tonight, and I’d like yeh to get through this without any fuckin’ drama for once so I can fuck off and _do_ them.”

The bloody cheek of him! It isn’t as though she invited him – he’d insisted on coming _despite_ her protestations, and now he’s resentful about being here. “You know what would help me get through this without any drama, Malcolm?” she hisses. “You leaving me alone for once! If you’ve got better things to be doing, then why don’t you piss off and do them?”

“Because I want the Government to still be standing when I wake up tomorrow morning.”

She’s prevented from answering by the sound of a gong. She looks up to see the footman standing at the entrance to the dining room. “Ladies and gentlemen, would you please take your seats. The speeches will begin shortly.”

Relief and apprehension flutter in her stomach. Speeches means a welcome by the president, followed by _her_ : representing the entirety of HM Government, unaccompanied, for 12 – 13 minutes (depending on how fast she speaks). Compulsively, she squeezes her evening bag, feeling for the solid edges of her cue cards. Thank God Jean had been there to stop her leaving the house without _those_.

“Shall we lead the way,” the president of the Police Federation, John West (she can remember his name, at least, because of the tuna), asks her with a smile.

She takes his proffered arm and he leads her into the dining room. It’s massive: half the size again of the room the drinks reception had been held in. Bigger than the auditorium at the Party conference. The podium is on a stage at the front, lit by a spotlight. It towers above the tables. She can’t take her eyes off it as he guides her towards the top table. Uniformed police officers and the few civilian guests in attendance file in behind them, the sound of conversation and laughter bouncing off the high ceilings and ricocheting against her jangling nerves. Her mouth is dry. She’s starting to feel light headed. Shit, this is _nothing_ like she’d rehearsed.

“Here you are,” says, showing her to her place. “I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with me a bit longer.”

She glances down at the place cards. He is sitting to her right and – _oh Jesus fuck, no_ – Malcolm is to her left. As she stares at his name in dismay, it is whisked away. “I hope you don’t mind me playing around with the seating plan,” Jean tells them with a charming smile, as she replaces Malcolm’s name card with her own. “Nicola and I are both so busy – we hardly ever see each other these days.”

“Be my guest,” says John West indulgently. “Who am I to stand between sisters?”

Jean winks at her as she carries Malcolm’s card to the opposite side of the round table. “Thank you,” Nicola whispers to her gratefully when she returns.

Jean squeezes her arm. “That’s what big sisters are for. Now sit down and catch your breath for a moment – you’re shaking.”

Nicola deposits her handbag and champagne glass on the table and takes her seat. “I’m not sure I can do this,” she murmurs. “There are too many people.”

Jean sits next to her and places a steadying hand on her arm. “You make speeches in the House of Commons: millions of people see that. A few hundred lightly pickled police officers are nothing in comparison.”

“First of all,” Nicola snaps back, “nobody actually watches BBC Parliament. And second, even if they did, I can’t _see_ them watching me when I speak in the House.”

“You won’t be able to see the audience when you’re on the stage either,” Jean points out. “That spotlight’s very bright.”

“But I can see them _now_ \- I know they’re there!”

Malcolm finds his place on the opposite side of the table. He sits down and shoots her a ferocious glare. _Don’t fuck up_ , he mouths.

“Nicola,” says Jean, sharply enough to pull her gaze away from him, “they’re coppers. They’re not interested in politics: they just want a free dinner, and a photo of them collecting their award from a celebrity to hang on the wall at the nick. As long as it’s short and funny, your speech will be well received. And it’s both.” Jean removes the cue cards from her handbag and passes them to her. “You’ll be fine.”

She takes the cards. She can’t bring herself to reply. She doesn’t feel fine. She feels like she’s going to be sick. She wishes she’d brought her Rescue Remedy.

John appears at her right shoulder. “Ready to get this show on the road, Nicola?”

“No.”

He laughs, taking her response for a joke. She doesn’t even need to look at Malcolm to feel his glare burning into her. Jean squeezes her arm again. Reluctantly, she gets to her feet.

* * *

“I know you’re all wanting to get stuck into your dinner, so without further ado, let me welcome the Secretary of State for Social Affairs and Citizenship Nicola Murray to the stage.”

The audience claps. Nicola takes a deep breath. _It going to be fine. It’s all going to be fine. Nicola Murray can do this. Just don’t rush_. She sets her shoulders as climbs the stairs to the stage.

She’s almost at the top – already steeling herself for the walk across the empty expanse of boards to the podium – when her toe catches in the stiff, flared taffeta of her skirt. She can feel herself stumbling, but she can do nothing to stop it. For a sickening moment she is falling forward, towards the varnished boards. Then she lands flat on her front with a graceless jolt. Her knee bangs painfully against the ground and her teeth rattle at the impact.

The clapping stops at once. Gasps, followed by a ripple of hushed conversation, spread through the audience.

“Mrs Murray, are you all right?” John West is crouching beside her.

A wave of embarrassment courses through her. “Yes, I’m fine,” she says, although her knee is so painful that she has to clench her jaw to stop her lip from trembling. He helps her to sit up, and she leans forward to pick up her scattered cue cards.

“Here, let me.” He gathers them into a pile while she rubs a hand over her smarting knee. “Can you stand?”

“I think so.”

She leans heavily on him as she rises and, sensing that she’s unsteady on her feet, John helps her to the podium. The audience has fallen painfully silent. The click of her shoes seems to echo around the room as she walks.

She grasps the edge of the podium, and John West is considerate enough to make sure she had a good grip of it before releasing her. He places the cue cards on the lectern and leans towards the microphone.

“Never let it be said that today’s politicians aren’t resilient, eh? Please give a big hand to the Right Honourable Nicola Murray.”

The audience clap again as he leaves the stage. Nicola takes a couple of deep breaths while waiting for the noise to subside, trying to calm the buzzing in her head. As Jean had predicted, she can make out nothing beyond the glare of the spotlight – it’s like looking into a vacuum. She looks down instead, to her cue cards.

They’re not in order. They’re not even all the right way up, she realises, leafing through the deck with mounting horror. She can’t give her speech without them – she’s never been able to memorise speeches, and even if she could, Malcolm doesn’t encourage anything that leaves so much room for error. Maybe if she was speaking to a few colleagues she could ad lib it, but in front of five hundred people she’d dry up within a few lines.

Sweat prickles on her palms. She’s completely fucked. “Shit,” she mutters. The microphone pics up the sounds, emphasising the sibilant. A ripple of laughter runs through the auditorium. “S-sorry,” she stammers, leaning too close to the mic. A shriek of feedback bleeds from the sound system. There’s more laughter.

Nicola looks directly into the blinding white light and freezes.


	4. Chapter 4

Nicola stands at the podium, her mouth agape and her gaze fixed on nothing. Five hundred people wait for her to do something - anything. The silence is so dense it's almost tangible.

Ten second pass.

Twenty.

Thirty.

Jean glances across the table at Malcolm. He is glaring at Nicola, fury etched across his angular features. He shows no sign of acting on it, though. If anything, he's slumping in his chair in an attempt to _distance_ himself from events.

Another twenty second passes. Nicola's breathing so hard that Jean can see her chest rising and falling from twenty meters away. The crowd start to titter nervously. This could turn into a full-scale meltdown if someone doesn’t intervene. She looks back to Malcolm. He meets her gaze and she raises her eyebrow. He shrugs in response, and crosses his arms across his chest. So much for being here to support Nicola.

She pushes her chair back and walks up to the stage, negotiating the steep stairs with care. She's acutely aware of the eyes of everyone in the room following her as she crosses the stage - can only imagine how much more keenly Nicola must sense it.

Nicola doesn’t look around when she reaches her side – Jean’s not convinced she’s even aware that she's there. She places a hand on her arm. “What’s wrong?” she whispers, careful not to get close enough to the microphone for it to pick up her voice.

Nicola turns to look at her, her eyes wide and sightless with panic. Jean squeezes her arm. “Everything’s going to be fine,” she tells her.

Nicola shakes her head, then looks pointedly down at the lectern. Jean follows her gaze and sees the problem at once. The cue cards on which Nicola has painstakingly written, annotated and highlighted her speech lie in a jumbled pile. Jean reaches across, takes the cards and flips through them. They’re not numbered and, right at this moment, Nicola is almost certainly incapable of the level of higher reasoning required to re-order them. She hands Nicola what she recognises as the first card. “You start,” she whispers. “I’ll sort these out.”

Nicola gives a slight shake of her head. “What if you can’t find the next one in time?” she asks, shielding the microphone with her hand.

“I listened to you give this speech this afternoon – I’ll manage.”

Nicola looks at her uncertainly. Jean holds her gaze, consciously trying to project calm. She wouldn't let anything bad happen to her younger sister - surely Nicola must trust that by now?

Finally, Nicola nods and turns back to face the audience. In what Jean recognises as a learnt technique for managing anxiety, she straightens her spine, lowers her shoulders and takes a deep breath. “And people complain that there’s never a police officer around when you need one!” she begins. The joke sounds panicky and a little desperate, but the crowd laugh – relieved that the tense pause has been broken.

Nicola begins to read. The first few lines are tentative and shaky, but after that her preparation kicks in. She speaks fluently, her pace slowing and her delivery becoming animated. Jean passes her the second card in good time and before Nicola’s half way through it, the audience are roaring with laughter at a running joke about kevlar body armour.

When she’s finished sorting the cards, Jean deposits them on the lectern and moves to stand in the shadows at the back of the stage. By anyone’s standards Nicola gives a barnstorming performance – far better than the monotone run through of MoJ initiatives that the Justice Minister delivered the previous year.  Nicola's always had the knack of telling a good story among friends, and it seems that over the years she's learnt how to channel that into public speaking - when her nerves don't get the better of her. From her vantage point, Jean can see the reactions of the audience, who seem for the most part genuinely interested and amused. When she finishes speaking, Nicola receives thundering applause. There are even cheers from a few of the more rowdy tables.

Assistant Chief Constable West reappears, grinning widely. “Thank you, Mrs Murray. I can honestly say that I haven’t enjoyed listening to a politician speak so much in quite some time. And now, ladies and gentlemen, I won’t keep you waiting any longer: dinner is served.”

Under the cover of conversation, they return to their table. Nicola seems a little shell shocked, but is grinning in relief at having got through her speech without further incident. Jean stays quiet, letting her bask in the attention that the other guests on the top table are lavishing on with. Their praise, she knows, carries far more weight than a compliment from her sister.

She glances across at Malcolm Tucker. He is looking at his phone, his face stony. Evidently no congratulations can be expected from him. She checks her own phone. She has two missed calls from an unknown number, but the caller hasn't left a message. That’s very unusual. If someone from the nick had been trying to get hold of her at this time of night, they would have left a voicemail with details about whatever it was that was so important that it needed her immediate attention. The only other calls she regularly receives from unknown numbers are Phil’s sporadic calls home, and he always leaves a voicemail if she doesn't answer.

An unwelcome thought pops into her mind: what if it had been Phil’s commanding officer calling? What if he’s been involved in an enemy engagement? Had his CO been ringing to let her know that he’s being med-evaced? Or worse still, what if he had been ringing to discuss the repatriation of her husband’s _body_??

She tries to shake the thought away. These are the kind of catastrophic leaps that characterise Nicola’s thinking, not hers. Most likely her number is on a cold calling firm’s roster and a bored call handler from Newcastle had been ringing to discuss PPI claims, or a once in a lifetime opportunity to invest in Syrian wine. That’s far more probable than an officer as senior as Phil being killed on deployment.

But, counters a traitorous voice, just because it's improbable it doesn’t mean the worst can’t happen. She sees it every day at work: people die unexpectedly in horrible circumstances all the time. Her fingers slip into the pocket of her jacket to clutch the card that had come with Phil’s flowers. _Please be all right_.

* * *

_21:19, Ella to Mum: cn I go riding w/hannah tmrw_

_21:20, Mum to Ella: What time?_

_21:20: Ella to Mum: 9_

_21:21: Mum to Ella: Dad will have to take you – Josh has football_

_21:23: Ella to Mum: hes not ansering_

_21:23: Nicola to James: Ella’s trying to get hold of you. Can you give her a lift tomorrow morning?_

_21:32: Nicola to James: How’s the party? Don’t forget you need to be home by 10_

_21:45: Nicola to James: Let me know you’re on your way home_

_21: 49: Nicola to James: Have you left yet?_

_21:56: Nicola to James: Ring me as soon as you get this_

_22:03: Lindsay to Mrs Murray: Hi Mrs Murray, my taxi’s arrived but Mr Murray’s not back yet_

_22:03: Mrs Murray to Lindsay: I’m so sorry – I’m just trying to get hold of him_

_22:04: Nicola to James: Where are you? Lindsay needs to leave_

_22:08: Lindsay to Mrs Murray: The driver says he can’t wait much longer_

_22:09: Nicola to James: Where the fuck are you???_

_22:14: Lindsay to Mrs Murray: My taxi’s left. I’m going to miss my shift at the hospital._

* * *

The dining room is noisy and hot, and the starched wing of his collar has bored a chunk of flesh out of his Adam’s apple. Malcolm stretches his legs under the table, trying to distract himself from the discomfort. Jesus Christ, he’s bored. Nicola’s pratfall, whilst infuriating, had at least been diverting. Since the meal began the conversation at his end of the table has been alternating between black police humour and English football, neither of which he has any interest in. It doesn’t help that Melissa keeps texting him photographs of the hotel room. She’s there already, drinking champagne in a bathrobe while he’s forced to endure this chimp’s tea party.

There had been a brief moment, half way through the main course, when he’d thought he might be able to make his excuses and leave early. Nicola’s neighbours had been bombarding her with compliments since she’d sat down. Fuck knows why, as not even a set by Queen at the height of Freddie Mercury’s considerable powers could obliterate the memory of the full body faceplant followed by two excruciating minutes of dead air that Nicola had laid on as a warm up act. She’d probably still be up there, suffering a protracted stage death, if her sister hadn’t rescued her. He’s never felt so profoundly humiliated by one of his charges _before_ they’ve opened their mouths.

Nevertheless, the great and the good of the Police Federation had overlooked this and, fed on a diet of flattery and cheap red wine, Nicola had briefly flourished into a socially adept human being over the course of the meal. She had smiled warmly, made jokes that didn’t make him want to stab his own eyeballs from embarrassment, and given an explanation of the government’s policy on sentencing guidelines – an area that’s not even in her brief – so coherent that he’s planning to borrow parts of it the next time he has to write a press release on the subject. He had caught himself thinking that, for the first time since he’s had the misfortune of making her acquaintance, he could understand how someone might have found her tolerable enough to marry – which is a cue to flee if ever there was one. Then it all starts going wrong.

He’s not sure what precisely tips her over the edge: maybe the third glass of cabernet sauvignon, or the glare from her nuclear orange dress, or her next dose of anti-psychotic medication being overdue. Whatever it is, all of a sudden she’s flustered. Her eyes keep darting to her phone and her neck is flushed red. When she reaches for her water glass, her hand shakes so badly that water slops onto her chicken cordon bleu.

John West makes a joke and looks expectantly at Nicola, waiting for her to laugh in response, but she’s staring at her phone as though it’s about to burst into flames and doesn’t even seem aware he’s spoken. Malcolm glances at her sister, hoping for another intervention, but she’s pushing her dinner listlessly around her plate while sporting a thousand-yard stare and a face like a slapped arse – no fucking help there.

Malcolm’s Blackberry buzzes. It's another message from Melissa - about the filthy things she’s planning to do when he finally gets to the hotel. All of a sudden, it’s just too much. He doesn’t want to be in an overheated function room, eating dry chicken and listening to men whose sporting activities are limited to lifting pints droning on about football. He doesn’t want to be pre-empting Nicola Murray’s gaffes and half expecting to have to go and triage the Chancellor or the Foreign Secretary’s latest blunder at a moment's notice. It’s Friday night. He just wants to be in a hotel in Mayfair getting his mind blown by a twenty-five-year-old journalist like a normal person. Is that really too much to ask?

Nicola stands, knocking her chair over in her haste to leave the room. Resentment coursing through him, Malcolm follows her.

* * *

The clicking of her heels reverberates off the marble surfaces of the atrium as she paces.

“Where the fuck are you!? Lindsay was supposed to leave quarter of an hour ago! Something really bad had better have happened, because if I find out that anything less serious than a car accident or – or a bloody _terrorist attack_ is stopping you from looking after your own children for one _sodding_ evening then you’ll be sleeping in your car until Christmas!”

As though he’s ever going to hear it. Nicola’s convinced that James deletes all her voicemails without bothering to listen to them. She scrolls through her phone for Lindsay’s number, wondering what inducement she’s going to have to offer her to stay with the kids until she can get from Greenwich to Highgate – a journey which could take hours at this time on a Friday night, when taxis are about as easy to come by as sodding rocking horse shit. No doubt after this Lindsay will be joining the long line of babysitters to blacklist the Murray family, which is heart-breaking as she’s a qualified nurse who doesn't seem phased by Ella’s more difficult moods.

She should never have agreed to speak at this dinner - it was always a disaster waiting to happen. No matter how hard she pretends, she’ll never be Jean: she’ll always be the thicker, clumsier, uglier younger sister that no one wants on their team. Even her bloody husband wishes he’d married the other Hillman. She’d thought she could get through one engagement without incident and as reward for her stupidity she has incurred public humiliation, a very painful knock to the knee, and the loss of the best babysitter the kids have ever had. She’s not fit to leave the house, let alone hold public office. Jesus, it’ll be a miracle if her kids get to adulthood without—

Her line of thought is interrupted by an incoming call. She moves to answer it, but her phone is snatched from her hand before she can lift it to her ear. She turns to find Malcolm looming behind her, his eyebrows arched demonically and his expression half-crazed.

She makes a grab for her phone. “I really need to answer that, Malcolm. It’s an emergency.”

He holds it out of her reach. “What the fuck’s goin’ on?”

“I have to go,” she insists. She tries to reach for her phone again and he moves it behind his back. “James hasn’t come home and the babysitter’s late for her other job so I need to get back.”

"You're leavin'?” Malcolm’s voice is dangerously quiet.

“Yes. I’m sorry, I know it's inconvenient but I can’t leave the kids home alone – they’re too young. The stove will catch fire or thieves will break in and they won’t know what to do and – would you just give me my fucking _phone_!?”

Malcolm leans forward so that their eyes are level. She can see white all the way around the outside of his grey-green irises. “What part of the concept of an ‘awards dinner’ do you not understand? It’s dinner – which we haven't finished eatin' – and awards, which you’re fuckin’ _presentin’_! Yeh can’t leave now.”

She throws her hands up in the air. Is she talking Croatian? Even he must realise that in the grand order of things, the safety of four children outweighs a union dinner. “I have to! Maybe you could present the awards instead of me – or Jean? I mean obviously she can’t present an award to herself but you could do that one and she could—”

“ _No_!!” Malcolm shouts. She takes a step back from his concentrated rage and has to steady herself against the wall as her injured knee almost gives way. “For once – for once in yer fuckin’ waste of oxygen existence – stop wittering like a canary in a mineshaft and do what yer supposed to! I didn’t think even _you_ could find as many ways to fuck this up as yeh already have tonight. Christ on a bike, yer capacity for failure is fuckin' _inhuman_ \- it's the _only_ fuckin' exceptional thing about yeh. I've endured as much as I can take of yeh for one evenin'. I'm _this_ close-" he holds his thumb and forefinger a few milimeters apart for emphasis "to doin' somethin' that would put me in prison for the rest of my life. And at this stage it'd be a fuckin' _relief_ compared to havin' teh look at you! So if yeh don’t walk back into that dinin’ room, make conversation with the nice policemen and hand out those fuckin’ trinkets I’ll put you out of yer misery myself!”

“ _I wish you would_!!” Her words are loud and shrill, and immediately followed by a loud sob. “I wish someone _would_ put me out of my misery because I’ve had enough!” She hadn't realised the truth of the words until they are tumbling out of her mouth between tears and gasped breaths. “I _hate_ my life! I hate DoSAC and always messing up and this horrible dress and yo—”

She’s cut off mid-sentence by Jean pushing them apart. “Would you two keep it down?” she says in a low voice. “This is hardly the appropriate venue for this conversation.”

Nicola glances around the lobby. The footman stationed by the door to the dining room pretends he hasn’t been watching their discussion. A pair of police officers standing on the other side of the room are less successful at hiding their curiosity. She dabs at her eyes with her pashmina, trying to stem her tears.

“What’s this about?” Jean asks.

“Riddin' the planet of her sorry excuse for a skin,” says Malcom, gesturing at her in disgust.

“I’ve got to go home,” Nicola counters. “James isn’t back yet and I can’t get hold of him.”

Jean levels an appraising gaze at each of them in turn. “James being unreliable is hardly an unusual occurrence,” she says. “And hardly deserving of this level of drama,” she adds, with a disapproving glare at Malcolm. “Now let’s go and wash your face, Nicola.”

Jean plants a hand between her shoulder blades and steers her in the direction of the ladies. Malcolm must make to follow them, because behind her she hears Jean say “Your assistance won’t be required, thank you. You’ve already done _more_ than enough.”

For once, he does as he’s asked. The fact that, even with Malcolm, Jean succeeds where Nicola has so consistently failed makes her sob even harder.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a short update this time, but I didn't want to delay posting for any longer than I already have. The rest of this fic is written in note form, but life's been hectic - new job, travelling, a chronic inability to say 'no', etc. - and I haven't had a chance to pull it together. I thought it was better to post the bit that is in good shape than to keep you waiting even longer.

It’s not the first time Jean has rubbed Nicola’s back while she throws up – it was a regular feature of their teenage nights out. She hadn’t expected to still be doing it when they were both in their forties though.

She’s not sure whether to attribute Nicola’s gastric distress to alcohol or anxiety. She hadn’t thought Nicola had drunk much – but then Nicola doesn’t drink from one week to the next so her tolerance for alcohol is appalling. Judging by the contents of her stomach she hasn’t eaten very much this evening either. _So much for looking out for you little sister_ she chides herself.

Nicola sinks back onto her heels and Jean squeezes her shoulder. “Feeling better?”

“I feel like shit,” she grumbles, wiping her mouth. Lipstick and strands of tannin-stained saliva smear across the back of her hand. Nicola stares at the stain in confusion. She’s definitely slightly drunk, Jean realises.

“Come on,” she says, helping her to her feet. “Let’s get you a drink of water.”

Nicola rinses her mouth out at the sink, then drinks greedily from her cupped hands. Jean surveys the damage to her appearance while she drinks. Whatever the girls did to her hair, it has enough holding power that her chignon merely looks elegantly dishevelled. Her makeup, however, has taken a beating. Her lipstick is almost entirely gone, mascara has smudged under her eyes and there are tear tracks down her cheeks. She’s a picture of despair.

Jean recalls the conversation she’d interrupted when she found Malcolm and Nicola in the lobby _. I_ _wish someone _would_ put me out of my misery because I’ve had enough! I _hate_ my life!  _It’s hard to know how seriously to take Nicola’s outbursts. She’s always had a flair for exaggeration. But on the other hand, the Nicola she has seen today really doesn’t seem happy.

A few years ago, Jean would have been able to gauge Nicola’s state of mind – would have known whether her outburst was a harmless overflow of frustration or a sign of something more disturbing. Nicola used to tell her everything. When they were girls, they would lie in the dark in their shared bedroom each evening and Nicola would tell her about the tricks girls at school had played on her, the boys she liked, and her endless worries: about failing her exams, not being popular enough, not being pretty enough – about the hundred ways in which she was a disappointment to their parents.  As adults they ended up living in separate cities, but still Nicola confided in her. Every few days there would be a long phone call during which Nicola babbled about the children’s achievements and misbehaviour, James’ indiscretions, and her worries – which had become no less numerous over time: about work, financial security, being a bad mother, being a bad wife. About being a disappointment to their parents.

When had Nicola stopped confiding in her? She can’t recall a specific incident. They haven’t fallen out. Nicola’s calls have just become gradually less frequent in the last few years, and she is less expansive when they do speak. And, Jean realises with a jolt of guilt, she hadn’t noticed. She’s been too absorbed in her own life for it to occur to her that her sister’s uncharacteristic reticence might be a sign that she’s struggling.

Nicola finishes drinking. She looks at her reflection in the mirror and groans. “Christ, I’m a mess.”

“It’s nothing we can’t touch up,” Jean reassures her.

“What’s the point?” says Nicola, turning away from her reflection. She slouches against the sink and buries her head in her hands. “I can’t stay anyway – I've got to get home.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic – James might just be delayed.”

Nicola shakes her head. “I’m not being melodramatic,” she mumbles. “James isn’t delayed, he's done this deliberately. Besides, I don’t really want to stay and find out how many other ways I’m capable of cocking up this evening.”

"What do you mean he’s done this deliberately?”

Nicola drops her hands from her face and crosses her arms across her chest. “I might have known you wouldn’t believe me.” Her expression is pouting and mutinous.

Jean sighs. “Nicola, of course I believe you. I just don’t understand why he would deliberately risk leaving the kids - _his_ kids - undsupervised.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Nicola looks at the floor, steadfastly avoiding her gaze. She recognises that mannerism – recognises her withdrawing in on herself.

“It _does_ matter,” Jean insists. “Why’s he messing everybody around like this?”

Nicola glances at her through her eyelashes. Jean fashions her face into an encouraging expression. “I annoyed him,” she says, finally, her voice small. “So he’s trying to get back at me.”

“But that’s just childish.” 

Nicola shrugs, her gaze returning to the bathroom floor. She can be infuriatingly un-cooperative when she wants to be.

“What’s he annoyed about?” she asks. “Nicola?”

“It doesn’t matter!” Nicola spins round, her hands flying into the air. “We didn’t all marry knights in shining armour. Not every man’s a perfect as Phil. Not every family’s as fucking wonderful as the Innocents. You have _no idea_ what our lives are like, so you have no right to judge me!”

Jean stares at her sister’s angry face, shocked by her outburst. “I wasn’t judging you,” she manages weakly.

“You were!” Nicola’s warmed up to the subject now. Her voice echoes off the hard tile walls of the room. “You’re always judging me! You’re as bad as fucking _Malcolm_. I’ve never measured up against you – you and your life are sobloody perfect! Well I’m sorry for cramping your style!”

“Perfect?” She barks out a bitter laugh. “Nicola, you couldn’t be further from the truth.”

“Whatever!” At this point Nicola sounds more like Katie throwing a tantrum than a minister of the crown. “You always treat me like I’m still a child. Sometimes I think you _like_ seeing me fuck up because it reinforces how superior you are. You and Phil and Chris. You’re so wonderful and we’re so— _messy!_ ” Nicola chokes on the last word, her face crumpling into a sob.

Jean stands stock still. Nicola's anger had come seemingly out of nowhere, and her words had been painfully targeted in a way that only a sibling’s can be. Is that really how Nicola sees her? _She’s drunk_ , her Chief Superintendent voice reminds her. But then, many a true word is said in drink. Does Nicola really resent her so much? And based on an image of her that’s so far from reality? A hard, painful ball lodges itself in her throat.

“Well?” demands Nicola, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. “Aren’t you going to tell me I’m being childish and unreasonable?”

She wants to tell Nicola that if her life looks ordered it’s only because she has too many hours by herself that need filling with distractions from how lonely it is. She wants to tell her that some days other people’s perception of her as calm and in control feels like a prison she’s trapped in. She wants to tell Nicola that _she’s_ the one who has no idea – no idea what it’s like to lie awake at night wondering whether the person you love is dead or alive. But she can’t say any of these things because if she does the ball in her throat might strangle her. So instead she bites out, in her best police officer voice: “You’ve had too much to drink. Let’s get you calmed down, and then we can sort out this mess with James.”

“Oh fuck off, Jean,” Nicola tells her, turning to face her own reflection in the mirror again. She grimaces at the tracks of mascara smeared across her cheeks.

Jean’s almost relieved when her phone starts ringing. At least it saves her from having to deal with Nicola in this mood. “I have to take this,” she tells her, fishing in her jacket pocket. “Make sure you clean your face up before you go back out there.”

* * *

She stalks out of the ladies and towards the entrance as she accepts the call. "Jean Innocent," she snaps down the line. Mercifully there's no one outside. She leans against the wall of the old building, breathing in the cool night air.

"What a co-incidence: that's my wife's name."

"Phil!" She’d been in such a rush to get away from Nicola that she hadn’t even thought to check who was calling.

"I'm not interrupting am I?"

"No." Interrupting? As if there was anything she would rather be doing than speaking to him. "Are you all right?"

"Exhausted. It's freezing at night - impossible to sleep. But otherwise fine. How are you?"

"Fine, absolutely fine." More than fine now that she knows he's not dead or injured.

"How's the girls' night out?"

She sighs. "More stressful than anticipated. Nicola's..." she struggles for a way to describe her sister that doesn't sound judgmental.

"Insecure?" supplies Phil. "Chaotic? Impulsive?"

"All of the above."

He chuckles. "Poor Nicola. It must be stressful being her. Did you get the flowers?"

Her right hand reaches to pat the card in her pocket. "Yes! Thank you - I can't believe you remembered."

"My best girl's up for an award - of course I remembered."

"Did you ring earlier?"

"I tried, but you were too busy enjoying yourself to answer."

"Would you leave a voicemail next time?"

"I wanted to surprise you."

"Surprises aren't always a good thing when you're on deployment." Her words are sharper than she intends - a tone she hardly ever uses with Phil.

"No," he replies. "I can see how that might be the case."

"It's so good to hear your voice," she confesses, allowing some of the tension that has built up over the last few hours to ebb from her body. It's _so_ good to know that he's safe.

"Are you sure you're all right, Jean?"

He sounds concerned. She closes her eyes, wishing she could take back her words. She doesn't want him to be concerned about her - never wants to saddle him with that burden when he has far more important things to worry about. "Yes, honestly: I'm fine."

"I worry about you now that Chris has moved out. I don't like to think of you on your own for months at a time. I know married quarters are grim, but at least if you were living on base there would be other people around who were in the same boat."

"I'm hardly sitting at home crying into my wine glass every night," she tells him with as much bravado as she can muster. "I'm far too busy for that kind of thing." Doesn't add that she doesn't allow herself time to sit and think, for fear of opening a box that she cannot close again.

He seems to know without her saying as much. "You need people you can talk to, Jean," he tells her softly. "Friends. Or your sister."

She snorts her amusement at this idea. "Nicola's got enough problems of her own."

"Nicola cares about you. And who knows - having someone else to focus on might help take her mind off her own problems."

"You don't need to worry about me, Phil. You're in a war zone - you have far higher priorities."

"You're my top priority - you always will be.

Her fingers tighten around the phone. "I love you," she breathes, marvelling at how keenly she means it after all these years.

"I love you too, Mrs I. I'm going to be out of touch for a few days, but I'll try to call again on Wednesday or Thursday."

"Look after yourself."

"Always. Now go and enjoy the rest of your evening - make sure someone takes a picture of you collecting your award. I'm going to get it blown up and stick it on the wall of my office - make all the other chaps jealous."

She laughs, "You're ridiculous."

"Quite likely. Goodbye love."

"Goodbye."

The line goes dead. She sags against the wall, hanging on to the glow of the conversation for as long as possible. These moments when she knows that he's alive and well and still cares about her are precious drops of reassurance.


End file.
